


Lost to Night

by JadeLavellan (Jadestone)



Series: Jacinth Lavellan [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Halamshiral, Romance, Smut, The Winter Palace, Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:37:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadestone/pseuds/JadeLavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I do adore the heavy blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events."</p><p>Solas and Lavellan slip away for some alone time after the events at the Winter Palace, but before the party really ends.</p><p> <br/>k!meme prompt: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13696.html?thread=53407616#t53407616</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> _From their ancient prisons they will sing._   
>  _Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,_   
>  _On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,_   
>  _The first of My children, lost to night._
> 
> _-Silence 3:6, Dissonant Verse_

 

There is blood drying on the floor, and when she squints at it, she can see where dainty-shoed feet have carelessly stepped through the sticky liquid. She finds it baffling and vaguely appalling that the nobles continue to dance, despite the death and mayhem only just fading back from the scene. Expensive vases lay smashed on the floor, chairs are overturned, and there is a tired but polite elf offering her a platter of tiny sandwiches stuffed with tasteless vegetables and some horrible paste that smells of fish.

She bites back the impulse to simply wave the man away—he’s no more than a boy, really—and politely declines with a “No, thank you,” instead. The air is filled with the tinkling of laughter and wine glasses as she hurries her way to Josephine, winding her way between guests while staunchly ignoring the handful of nobles trying to catch her eye so they can ask her to chat. Her diplomat seems to have finally escaped the ring of well-dressed gentry who’ve been assaulting their party with questions ever since the bodies fell—“What will this alliance mean for the inquisition? For Orlais? For all of Thedas?”

 _Perhaps,_ Lavellan does not say to any of them, _you will have to look out of a window instead of down your noses in order to find out._

But Josephine smiles at her encouragingly, as the tired Inquisitor finally halts next to her. They stand near the wall, close enough to the dance floor to conceivably be watching the twirling forms before them, but far enough that they are in no danger of being pressed into service as partners themselves.

“Inquisitor!” She greets her warmly. “I’m pleased to report that half a dozen minor lords have already pledged soldiers and gold to our cause. Mind you, at least three of them won’t remember the promise over their hangovers tomorrow, but I am sure a delicate thank-you letter in a week’s time will suffice to remind them.”

“Ah. Yes. Excellent work.” Lavellan sighs tiredly, unable to summon up convincing enthusiasm at the news. “Sorry, Josie. I am glad, really. It’s just…” She gestures helplessly at the crowd before them. “I know Leliana said the party would go on, but it’s been two hours now; it must be nearly one in the morning.”

“Not for another hour, Inquisitor. Although after all the running about you had to do, I am sure it feels like longer.”

Lavellan can’t help but notice that the diplomat’s own eyes are bright and twinkling, cheeks flushed with the thrill of—negotiations? Small talk? It is not a response Lavellan can fathom ever having herself after hours of chatting with nobles, who spend the whole time sucking up to them like greedy fish. She’d take a solid fistfight instead any day, and considering she’s a mage, that was saying something.

“Midnight, then,” she groans quietly instead. “I don’t suppose we all could just leave for home now?”

“Not without creating a scandal, my Lady.”

“I don’t see Cullen out mingling with the rest.”

“Our dear Commander was hurrying away from the more, ahem, _enthusiastic_ of his admirers the last I saw him. He walked into a cloakroom and shut the door behind him as though it were a private office. I haven’t seen him emerge, though, so presumably it wasn’t already… occupied.”

“I suppose it would be bad form for _me_ to hide in a closet for the rest of the evening?” Lavellan asks hopefully. “Or even the same closet. Now _that_ would start a scandal, I’m sure.”

“No desire to exult in the thrill of victory? I am sure anyone here would be happy to dance with you.”

“I’d rather exult in the thrill of a hot bath somewhere quiet, to be honest. And I think I’ve had enough dancing for one night. Besides, I’m sure I’d make a mess of it somehow—I’d manage to dance with someone everyone hates, and they’ll just come clambering to you asking what it signifies for the future of the nation.”

“Perhaps you are right. Although I think enough bottles have been emptied to keep tonight’s events conveniently fuzzy, as far as manners are concerned.”

“I jumped on a table earlier to get a better look at a painting, and you should have seen their faces,” she admits. “Their Herald not only a knife-ear, but hopping all over the furniture. I’m sure tongues will wag about all my absurd manners, no matter how much they drink tonight.”

 Josephine winces at her casual use of the slur, still clearly uncomfortable with the strangely benevolent racism that’s surrounded the Inquisitor all night.

“Well, I noticed you were happy to dance with our elven mage earlier in the evening. Perhaps you’d rather spend the evening… closeted with him instead,” she slyly remarks to change the subject. It works, Lavellan’s face and delicate ears flushing pink as she stammers out a reply.

“It—that was right after—everything. A few moments to relax isn’t the same as parading on for hours as if nothing’s happened. It’s not—” She snaps her mouth shut before she can say more, mentally wallowing in the conversational hole she’s dug herself into, and tries not to think about more pleasant uses for tongues than complaining about her etiquette.

But Josephine merely giggles softly, her eyes crinkling. It’s not the disdainful hum of the aristocrats around them, but the girlish laugh of a friend.

“Oh, go ahead then.” Lavellan mutters as she fiddles with the fabric of her bright blue sash, flushing redder still. “I need something else to drink.”

"As you wish, Inquisitor.”

Lavellan makes it approximately three steps before a fluted glass of champagne is pressed into her hand. Tiny red fruits are mixed into the drink, plump berries now swollen with alcohol and staining the pale liquid with their juice.

“Oh—thank you,” she says belatedly to the elf who handed it to her, but the slight woman is already slipping back into the crowd, smiling gently as she gives a tiny bow and hurries away. The Inquisitor bites her bottom lip, sternly reminding herself that the walls have ears here—even if they are familiarly pointed ones.

She takes a drink. It fizzes pleasantly on her tongue, the sweetness of the berries cutting across the sharp alcoholic taste. She wanders the edge of the room as she sips, nodding politely at those who curtsey to her, but not stopping. If she continues determinedly circling the room, perhaps everyone will assume she’s heading somewhere important. For the next… seven hours. She tries not to think about staying awake that long, inwardly cursing the long nighttime hours of winter.

“Enjoying the rest of the night?” A familiar voice asks her, and she nearly chokes on the mouthful of champagne she’d just taken.

“Solas,” she croaks after she manages to swallow, turning her silent swearing from the dawn to her traitorous feet. They have led her to where he stands, leaning casually against one of the great marble pillars as dancers sweep across the floor a mere dozen paces away. “And how is your evening, now that the bloodshed seems to have stopped?”

“For us, at least, although I’ve seen a handful of attempted poisonings since we’ve finished. Perhaps it is a good thing you claimed the spotlight considerably early on.”

“If we’d procrastinated, maybe they all would have finished each other off before I had to lift a finger,” she grumbles, but her following sigh reveals her weariness.

“Would you prefer to take a walk around the halls as a respite?” the apostate asks, and though there is nothing more than politeness in his tone, the unfamiliarly languid timbre of his voice this whole evening has her heart fluttering in her chest like a moth. “There are all manner of ancient elven relics here, displayed after they were pulled from Halamshiral. I am sure their interpretations for their uses are laughably inaccurate.”

“I would love to,” her alcohol-lubricated tongue deftly replies before her brain has finished deciphering the invitation, and she lightly takes his proffered arm. “Lead the way,” she tells him, and pretends the hammering of her pulse is just an effect of the drink. She takes another sip, and discovers her glass has somehow again been filled without her noticing.

As they walk along the edge of the room and towards the exit, she glances about, wondering what people will say about her close conversation with the “elven manservant.” No one is watching them, and she is certain that this means everyone sees. She hopes her blush isn’t as it obvious as it feels, because if it were she is fairly sure she’d be the same color as the red silk of her jacket. An unflattering thought. She has just enough time to peek back to where Josephine stands in deep conversation, hoping she won’t notice their early departure, and then he is guiding her out of the ballroom and into a darker wing of the palace. She slips through the doorway after him, and does not look back at the other guests again.


	2. Chapter 2

Once they are out of the ballroom, the uncomfortable weight of a hundred judgmental stares slowly lifts. While the outer halls are by no means deserted, the guests here seem more intent on their conversations or their own comings and goings, and Lavellan finally finds herself relaxing. She and Solas chat as they walk, about the night’s events, the guests, the food. Somehow, she always forgets how easy it is to talk to him. The walls he builds between himself and the world seemed so impenetrable at first—she can’t remember a single time she’s asked about his past she’s left the conversation _less_ confused than before—but then there are times like this; when he forgets to lock himself away inside his head. His earnest interest in every subject he brings up charms her to no end.

Things between them have been—charged, ever since he came to her on the balcony. Before that, she had just been waiting, hoping; and now—well, to be honest, not much had really happened. One thing after another just kept coming up, and suddenly it was almost a month later and all she had to show for it was a few stolen kisses and some frustratingly dull nights in a tent on the Storm Coast, with Solas lost to Fade wanderings on one side of her and Varric snoring away on the other. It seemed like people were always sending her running here or there. And now, putting her in a dress uniform, shoving her into a fancy crowd who otherwise would scoff at her, and telling her to decide the fate of the whole country—not to mention the lives of those involved.

It was nice to take a short break from all that.

_You deserve it_ , she tells herself, pushing away any last guilt at leaving the ballroom. Besides—every time he calls her _vhenan_ , her heart jumps inside her chest, and she can’t help the tingle of warmth that floods through her.

They walk through the hall, pausing to admire, mock, or mourn the relics and art that line the walls. He was right about much of it belonging to their people; several of the artifacts displayed were sacred ones that any Dalish clan would be proud to possess. Instead, they languish amidst this uncaring crowd, gathering dust as dancers float past. Silently, she wonders at how these well-dressed magpies snatch up anything they find, only to carelessly abandon it once it was theirs. The claiming and possessing more important than the actual item. It is so unlike how she grew up, knowing that everything she ever owned she needed to be able to carry, and fit into a snug corner of one of the aravels.

She almost mentions this to Solas as they wander, but at the last moment bites her tongue instead. She is not ashamed of her people; far from it, seeing the remnants of their history fills her with a fierce pride in how they have survived despite everything thrown against them. But bringing them up will only slam up the barrier Solas keeps between them again. Lavellan does not understand it, and she is not sure she ever will, but she does not push him—whatever grievances haunt him, he does not take it out on her, and curious as she might be she forces himself to respect his privacy. Most of the time.

Instead, she drains the last of the champagne she still holds in one hand, leaving only a cluster of the swollen red berries at the bottom. Solas is still telling her about a Fade-memory he’d shared in the very ruins depicted in the painting before them. Casually, he reaches forward and plucks one of the bright fruits from her glass, popping it into his mouth as he talks. She struggles to stay focused on their conversation as he chews, unable to keep herself from imagining the way the sweet juice would taste on his lips.

Carefully, she sets the glass down on a nearby table, before an ever-eager servant can materialize to fill it again. For now she is pleasantly tipsy, just enough for everything to seem sparkling and vivid. But part of her is still alert and watchful, hyped up from the fights and rush earlier in the evening. She doesn’t want to lose control of her awareness, despite everyone else’s’ reassurance that the danger is now past.

Suddenly too warm, Lavellan reaches up to unbutton the collar of her alarmingly-colored jacket. As her fingers reach past the first button and brush against bare skin, she abruptly recalls she is no longer wearing a shirt beneath it. She remembers now removing it earlier in the evening, after healing a knife slash on her ribcage. She’d slipped into a washroom and peeled it off to reach the wound, and then abandoned the blood-soaked garment once her skin was mended. Slowly, she drops her hand, now all too aware of the way the silk jacket brushes against her bare skin as they walk.

She slows their leisurely pace to examine an ornate vase on the top of a stairwell. It is nearly as tall as she is, covered in a lovely blue glaze overlaid with a hideous orange-and-purple relief of a woman feeding herself grapes.

“This isn’t elven, is it?”

“This?  No, much younger. Probably Orlesian.”

“It looks expensive.”

“It was probably worth a small fortune.”

Delicately, hands clasped together behind her back, the Inquisitor picks up one leg and rests it on the side of the pot. With barely more than a flick of her ankle, it tips over the banister, shattering with a loud crash on the floor below.

“Whoops,” she comments blithely. “Kicked it by mistake.” Somewhere around the corner, voices rise in question, and footsteps echo as someone comes to investigate the noise.

“Oh, dear,” Lavellan amends. “Hurry!” She grabs Solas’ hand, dragging him away from the scene and farther down the corridor. He is still chuckling quietly, but follows. Once they round the next corner, she slows into an unhurried amble. She does not drop his hand, and he does not pull away. They have nearly circled back to the ballroom, now, and the paintings are marching forward through time, featuring uncomfortable-looking noblemen and women in all manner of bizarre and awkward attire.

Lavellan halts in front of one last landscape. It’s a view across the Dales, and striking towers and arching walls rise gracefully from distant hills. Small ones are scattered in the background, but jutting grandly from the center of the painting, a magnificent castle rises, tiny and exquisitely rendered.

She reaches out to trace her fingertips along the tiny rolling meadows and up the walls, half-expecting to feel the cobbled surface beneath her hands. Instead there is only the slightly chalky feel of dried paint.

“Halamshiral,” she says, simply.

“Yes.” Solas agrees quietly, voice once more grave. “As it would have been. For four hundred years, my people reigned here. Until once more they were driven away, as though they were nothing better than vermin.”

“It looks so different.”

“Time and the whims of nobility take their toll. Different architectural styles coming in and out of fashion. This is no more the capital of an Elvhen city than a plowed field is a forest.”

They gaze at the painting for a few moments more, in silence. She wonders if he noticed that way he used the word “we.” She always does, and to hear it makes her sad. He only ever seems to claim kinship with their people when it is about some long-forgotten artifact or history; when he is speaking of the dead. Quietly, she mourns for his loss too, in a way she knows she can’t ever bring up to him, or risk shattering the fragile truce they have around her heritage and his disdain.

She turns her face from the art to study him instead. He is still staring at the wall, although his eyes seem focused on something beyond the painting before them. His careful display of calm certainty has wavered again, this time not revealing amused merriment, but some inner chasm of grief he holds deep inside himself that she can just dimly sense.

Impulsively, she reaches for him, gripping the front of his silk jacket and pulling his face down to hers. For half a moment he stands in startled silence as her lips press to his, but then he is kissing her back, mouth moving against hers as he melts fiercely into her embrace. Still clutching his jacket with one fist, she lets go of his hand to press her other palm against his shoulder, wrapping her fingers around the back of his neck. His own hands move to her waist and he pulls her closer, leaning into her as they kiss, before sliding his palms further down her hips. Lavellan’s breath catches in her throat as his tongue darts out, sliding against her mouth and then away, and she can feel his own small gasp of surprised pleasure as she opens her mouth to lightly graze her teeth against his lower lip. She presses against him hungrily, fingers tightening around his shoulder as—

“Well _hello_ to you, too.”

“Dorian!” Lavellan gasps, breaking away suddenly and whirling to face her grinning companion, a wicked and knowing gleam in his eyes.

He’s leaning casually in the doorframe, an exaggeratedly relaxed pose that undoubtedly means he’s been watching them for more than a few seconds. Dorian was the only one of their group who actually made the bright silks and sashes of the dress uniform look _good_. When she had griped about this to him earlier in the evening, here had merely pattered her on the shoulder and told her, “It’s not the uniform, dear Inquisitor” before sauntering away. She assembles her face into rigid politeness, even though she can feel her ears burning in embarrassment.

 “How are you? Enjoying the evening I hope?” she manages to reply after only a moment’s faltering. She tries to take a step back from Solas, but one of his arms is still slung around her waist, his hand resting on her hip and tightening in resistance as she attempts to move away. The pressure of his fingertips sends a tiny shiver across her skin, and from the further tightening of his grip, she knows he felt it. When she glances at him from the corner of her eye, he is coolly meeting Dorian’s gaze, and _smirking_.

“Oh, _quite_ so,” the Tevinter mage replies with relish. “Although apparently not as much as _you_ are.”

Lavellan resists the wild and senseless urge to punch either of them or maybe even herself. “We were just looking at some of the artwork,” she tells him instead, ignoring the way his eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Quite a bit of them are older elven artifacts.”

“Indeed,” Solas agrees. “Much of my people’s culture was locked away here.”

He still sounded so _smug_.

_Are any men in this Inquisition not insufferable?_ she thinks darkly to herself, as she smiles sweetly at Dorian and asks:

“Care to join us? I am sure there is much you could learn about my culture, yourself.”

She almost doesn’t hear Solas’ faint but satisfyingly strangled noise of protest at the invitation over Dorian’s single bark of laughter.

“I merely stepped out for a moment for some fresh air. I should be heading back to mingle with the rest of them. I suppose I’ll see you two later this evening, perhaps?” He gives her a meaningful look.

“Perhaps,” Solas agrees, and Lavellan could almost kick him for how level his response is as she once more flushes red.

_Perhaps?_ Was that just more witty banter, or was he implying—no, no. She couldn’t think about that right now. Her heart was already still halfway to her throat, and just because they’d been caught. Besides, they were in the middle of the hall, only a few doors away from the remaining Orlesian nobility—this was not the place to be considering. Other things.

“ _Do_ enjoy yourselves,” Dorian tells them, and Lavellan determinedly ignores his salacious wink, briefly wondering if maybe there is still room in Cullen’s broom cupboard after all.

Instead, as he strolls away, she turns back to the painting. Solas’ hand still rests at her waist, her shoulder pressing against his.

“I wish we could see it,” she remarks. “The other ruins nearby, I mean. I know they’re not much now, but still. The Palace just doesn’t feel elven anymore; it’s so filled with… everything. I imagine we’ll be in too much of a hurry to get back to Skyhold when we leave tomorrow, though.” She knows that Josephine or Leliana would hardly deny the Inquisitor a stop along the way, but she is reluctant to drag them all around through the cold at her whims, prolonging the already lengthy journey home.

“They’re not far. You could probably see them from here, you know.” Solas ponders aloud. “It’s nothing much compared to being able to experience them in person, of course. If the night is as clear as it was earlier…”

“Really?” Lavellan perks up at that. “The moon hasn’t set yet, I think. Could we look?”

He considers her request. “I don’t see why not. Come then, _Vhenan_.”

She feels the familiar pleasant thrill at the endearment, even as he steps away from her side to lead her through the hall. They circle back around the ballroom, heading towards the wings on the west side of the palace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking her somewhere more private, _perhaps?_ Oho.


	3. Chapter 3

 

There is less art here, or at least, none she is interested in looking at now. She questions him about history instead, what he knows of this region that may be lacking from her knowledge. She doesn’t agree with his assessment that her people know nothing of their past—but she does intend to wring from him every scrap of extra information she can.

Abruptly, he halts, and Lavellan almost stumbles into him mid-sentence.

“What—” she begins to ask, but he grabs her shoulder and pushes her backwards, pressing her firmly if not roughly into a corner of a small alcove in the wall. Her breath catches as he pins her, one arm braced against the wall behind her, the other still at her shoulder.

She hears the footsteps now, growing louder from around the next corner. His body shields her from view, shadowing her narrow frame from sight, and she notices—as always—how much taller and broader he is than any other elf she’s met.

“Other guests,” he says softly, his breath tickling against her ear. “It would not do for the Inquisitor to be caught in an empty hallway with no one but her elven manservant.”

Lavellan almost protests, that they will have to accept him as a full member of her party if she has to beat them about the head with Leliana’s fancy slippers. But she is too transfixed by his nearness and the uneven quirk of his lips as he smiles, unable to form a coherent reply. Absently, Solas releases her shoulder to brush a few fallen hairs from her face, fingers tracing along her jaw as he tucks the loose strands behind her ear. She catches a brief snatch of conversation from the women as they walk past, the swishing of their skirts not quite enough to cover their comments—“Came with the Inquisitor’s party—probably dallying with some serving girl, it’s only to be expected—“

But then Solas leans in to brush his lips against hers, still cupping her face in one palm, and in her enthusiastic reply she loses track of the huffed conversation.

 

It is several minutes before they breathlessly break apart, the hallway once more empty. As they walk further from the party, the danger of running into anyone who might recognize her (by which she means: everyone) diminishes, and they can once more converse openly. They walk into a smaller ring of rooms adjacent to the Royal Wing, one the night’s adventures haven’t led her down yet, as he tells her of the revels of Arlathan.

“…feasts that would last for days. Not like here, where everyone is trapped into a charade of politeness. Instead, there were great open rooms, filled with food and drink and dancing. Revelers came and went as they would, and the doors were open to any who wished to join. The celebrating never just for one person, but rather the joy of merrymaking itself. And the scandals… ah, here.” He pauses at a door, twisting the handle and entering as Lavellan trails behind him. She’s still puzzling over the wistfulness in his voice as he speaks of these Fade-memories, but is distracted at the sight of the room.

It is large and open, an ornately carved set of chairs and table just inside the entrance, with matching dresser and heavily draped canopy bed pushed against the back wall. Directly across from them, the outside wall consists of more tall glass windowpane than stone, with wide double doors leading to a balcony and the promised view. A fire already burns on the near wall, the hearth crackling as hot air billows across them.

Solas unbuttons his jacket, the red silk shirt beneath so starkly different from his usual garb she can’t help but smile.

“Whose rooms are these?” she asks curiously.

He glances at her in faint surprise as he drapes his coat carelessly over one of the chairs.

“Mine.”

“Oh!” Lavellan can feel her face flushing again, and hopes he mistakes it for the heat of the room. She reaches to kick off the horribly confining boots her advisors insisted she wear, hiding her face.

“We were shown our quarters shortly after we arrived—you were still being introduced around, I’d forgotten.”

“Ah. I haven’t been to mine yet. Leliana will have to show me, I suppose.”

She follows as he walks to the balcony doors, swinging them open with a flourish. The gauzy curtains billow and flutter as the chill breeze rushes in, the shadows around them flickering and dancing in the silver glow of moonlight.

 “I imagine they will be on the Royal Wing, as your position befits. Josephine must have carefully neglected to mention my race when organizing our stay, or doubtless I’d be stuck in some corner of the servants wing.” He chuckles, and she lightly steps onto the balcony, drawing a small, sharp breath as she gazes across the plains. The hills below are dark, but rising from them in the distance are the magnificent broken stone arches, awash with silver and starlight. She knows they must be a many-hour ride distant, but in the angled shadows of the night, they look almost close enough to reach out and touch.

She steps forward to lean against the railing as she looks, and Solas settles beside her, his shoulder just barely brushing against hers. They stand and stare in contemplative, companionable silence as the minutes sweep by. She can’t imagine what it would have been like to live within those halls, even as she carefully tries to envision the shattered castles restored, rebuilding them in her mind.

She wonders if he’s been to them himself, spent a night within the crumbling pillars and broken fountains, and what dreams he found there if he did. The lives their people had built, in what they thought would be their final homeland? The brutal war of reclamation? Or perhaps even revels akin to what he had described, just much closer to the present. Doubtless he would be recalling it all now as they look. But the crisp air is too calm to disrupt with talk just yet, the cold a refreshing reprieve from the stuffy, stagnant air of the ball.

 

After a long while, she sighs, and pushes herself upright as she steps back.

“Thank you,” she says, turning to him with a smile.

The harsh light carves mosaics of their faces, shadows pooling beneath their eyes and along their jaws. And this time, it is he that pulls her close, grasping the back of her neck to tilt back her head half a moment before his lips crush against hers. His other hand presses once more at the small of her back, pulling her tight against his body and sending a warm tingling through her abdomen as she wraps her arms around his shoulders. He kisses her with an intensity he hasn’t revealed since their first in the Fade or before his admission on the balcony, driven by some inner ferocity she does not understand, but which draws from her a moan as he bites down on her bottom lip.

He steps forward and she finds her back pressed against the wall, and he _has_ to know what it does to her when his knee presses between her legs, parting her thighs. She groans as heat flares deep in her stomach, unable and unwilling to hide her arousal as she lifts one leg to wrap around his hip. His fingers grip her thigh, sliding down to nudge her knee higher against him, the pressure of his fingertips making her shudder even through the thin fabric.

She can hear that damnable clock finally chiming one in the background, and some giddy voice at the back of her head notes how much faster time seems to go when she’s with him. This close, he somehow smells like a forest despite the heavy chemical perfume of the Palace air; like fresh spring grass and dark, wet soil; and the sweet fragrance of a spice she can’t recognize. His tongue softly parts her lips, sweeping across the inside of her mouth, and she can still taste the lingering flavor of the sweet summer wine he’s been drinking all night.

_Drinking all night,_ the horribly observant part of her mind reminds her. Their fellow elves have been as eager to refill his glass as her own. She forces herself to pull her head back, breaking their kiss, but his lips merely brush across her jaw instead, and despite herself she tilts her head back so they can find her neck.

“Solas,” she gasps, trying not to concentrate on the way his fingers tighten in her hair and around her leg at his name, “this… you have had a lot of wine tonight,” she observes wildly, cringing inwardly as the words leave her tongue. He pauses for the briefest second, and then laughs against her skin, the sensation sending thrills through her.

“Do you think I’m drunk?” he murmurs, voice low as his tongue presses against her neck, and she finds it suddenly very difficult to remember what she had wanted to say.

“You’re just not usually so…” She struggles for words, as of _course_ the yammering part of her brain that doesn’t know when to keep quiet switches from concerns about his sobriety, to wondering how his lips might feel elsewhere. “Forward,” she finally manages, the word ending in a whimper of pleasure, as he opens his mouth to lightly bite the side of her throat.

 “Drunk. Perhaps,” he admits after a few achingly pleasurable moments. “But not on wine. If anything, it is from _you_. Watching you master their Game, stealing glory from the nobles and wrapping their plans around your own.” He releases the hand that holds her head, sliding it slowly behind her shoulder and down her side. She stares past his shoulder at the star-strewn sky above with half-lidded eyes, breathing heavy with desire while he whispers the words against her ear. “They never expected it of you, and you played them against each other magnificently. You could have rivaled anyone here, or even at Arlathan itself.” His palm has reached the edge of her jacket, and he slides his fingers beneath it to brush against the bare skin of her waist. “Would you prefer that I stop, _Vhenan_?” His lips hover just above hers again now, close enough to feel his own heavy breathing as his blue eyes gaze intently into her own. Despite his words, his thumb traces small circles against her hipbone, his touch infuriatingly light.

“No, no,” Lavellan protests, more than a little dizzy from the stroking, “you should _definitely_ continue. Arlathan, you say?”

“Shall I tell you more of those days, then?” His voice is too rough to be a purr, low and throaty and she can feel herself coming undone at just the sound of it. “The manipulation, the intrigue, the sex would far surpass anything seen tonight.” His lips have moved back along her jaw, his hand still caressing her hip, gently teasing at the edge of her smallclothes. Her legs are trembling, and she digs her fingers into the back of his neck, clinging to him for support. “They would dance for pleasure and for power. The very air would be so heavy with magic, you couldn’t even move without feeling it, crackling in all your senses. And yet you would still blaze brighter than them all,” he finishes, breath tickling the skin just below her ear, and Lavellan loses herself to the madness of desire—his words have erased any lingering doubts she has about his intentions for the evening. For tonight, at least, he is not pulling away; holding himself apart. She can feel his erection pressing against her side, and with a moan, she rocks her hips against his hardness, drawing from him an answering growl of pleasure.

His lips crash back against hers, mouths clashing together in an almost violent need. Hands clutching the front of his silk shirt, Lavellan pushes off of the wall and turns to shove him back into the room, backing him towards the ornate Orlesian bed. They fly apart and collide again and again over the dozen steps it takes to reach it, almost stumbling as they pull at each other with forceful passion. The finer details of the room are lost to her in a dark blur as he finally falls to sit on the edge of the bed, and she does not wait for him to lie down; planting her knees on either side of his thighs to sit straddling his lap. She pulls at his shirt, tugging it over his head and running her hands along his bared shoulders; while his own fingers begin to undo the clasps of her jacket. His knuckles graze against her bare skin below the coat after only three buttons, and he pulls back from their kiss in puzzlement.

“Where—“

“Got blood on my shirt,” she interrupts impatiently, moving her mouth to where his neck meets the defined lines of his collarbones. “Didn’t want Josie to notice and get mad.”

“And leaving it—“

“Not important,” she mumbles into his skin, reaching one hand to trace along the outer edge of his ear, her touch tantalizingly light, reveling in the way his breath catches as he abandons his questioning. His fingers fumble for a moment as she slowly scrapes her teeth across his skin, sucking leisurely at the skin of his neck, then he all but tears the last of them apart. The jacket falls open as he runs his palms up the naked skin of her sides, and behind her back to tug at the fastening of her bra. For once, she is grateful for the comparatively scantier Orlesian-style smallclothes she had to wear under the dress uniform, the fabric finally falling away beneath his fingers.

One slender-fingered hand grasps her breast, and she arches into his grip, her body long and lithe as she throws her head back in pleasure, hair spilling down her back as she shrugs away confines of the coat. The room is still over-warm from the roaring fireplace, but a gust of icy wind shoots in through still-open balcony doors, sending prickles of gooseflesh along their bared skin. Solas’ thumb skims across her nipple, circling the pink tip as he lightly squeezes. His other hand skims lower, brushing against the waistband of her smallclothes with tormenting leisure.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpers, pleading, and he smiles as his hand dips further down. She is already slick with arousal, his fingers easily parting her; stroking with agonizing slowness. His lips find her neck again, his tongue tracing slow swirls onto her skin, and when he murmurs against her throat, the elvhen words that tumble from his lips are not ones she can recognize.

“What does that mean?” she breathes, even as one of his fingers slides further inside her and she presses into it with a reedy sigh of desire.

“Do you need me to tell you?” The hand cupping her breast squeezes again, finding rhythm with his unhurried teasing at her clit, and she once more struggles to keep focused on his words. “Listen to their cadence, their music. You are _elvhen_. You can feel the meaning…”

He whispers the phrase again, savoring the words on his tongue while increasing the pressure of his fingers, and she shudders at the near-ecstasy. She does not know this side of their language, but their connotation is clear: a hint of all the wickedly obscene things he could do to her, the state he could bring her to with just the coaxing of his nimble hands; a promise both scandalous and delicious. The heady lust rolls across her in waves, and she plunges a hand inside his trousers, wrapping her slender fingers around his shaft, unable to contain her desire.

He hisses in surprise, the reflexive tightening of his fingers nearly sending her over the edge. He curses softly at the way she can interrupt his control with a single touch, and the hand inside her smalls draws back from her, every so slightly, and she groans in protest.

“The revels of Arlathan,” he says in a low voice, this time in the language she knows with her head rather than her heart. “They would make love for hours, hovering at the brink of pleasure.” He pauses, teasing one fingertip back into her, fingers soaking with her arousal already. He says something in elvhen again— _Nuvenan rosas'da'din in'emma'av'in, sule Ar av'in rodhe u'ma—_ the words heavy with lust, and then leans forward until his mouth just brushes against her ear.

“Do you want me to show you?”

Her answer is half a wail, high and fluttering as it rips from her throat. “Please,” she begs him, then: “ _Solas_.”

The sound of his name on her tongue, even if it is not the right name, brings his already burning passion to an inferno. He grasps her hips and all but throws her onto her back on the bed, twisting so he is propped above her. She kicks away her trousers as he trails kisses down her breastbone, pausing for a moment to gently suck at one nipple before moving his lips down her ribs to her stomach. His long fingers find the waistband of her smallclothes, edging them down over her hips, slowly sliding them from her slender legs. The places where his mouth has touched her skin flare with warmth, and she can’t tell if it’s his magic or a side effect of her already intense stimulation.

With almost unbearable slowness, he works his mouth down her hip and onto her thigh, bringing one hand up to rub into her with his fingers again. Lavellan clutches at his hairless head as he bites and sucks the skin of her inner thigh, maddeningly close to her opening. His tongue presses against her skin, first softly and then harder, teasing her with the suggestion of what is to come. The fine silk sheets beneath her are already growing damp, and she bucks her hips forward into the pressure of his hand and mouth, her whole body pleading for more. When he finally indulges, sliding his tongue inside her, the sensation overwhelming as she struggles not to writhe beneath him. His tongue swirls and prods, fingers sliding deeper inside her as he coaxes her back to the edge of satisfaction. She can feel herself teetering at the brink of orgasm, heedless of the soft cries escaping her lips—as he withdraws, moving his mouth back down her leg.

Her eyes fly open. “Don’t you dare,” she gasps, one hand reflexively reaching down towards herself, but he catchers her wrist firmly before she can finish where he left off. “Patience, _Vhenan_ ,” he smiles into her skin, and then, “ _Jutuan ma ir rosas'da'din, ma tel'aman melin.”_

Reluctantly, she withdraws her hand, clutching instead at the bedsheets as he presses one palm into her hipbone, and now she is certain that there is magic in his touch. Tingling waves of pleasure roll from where his hand pushes against her, pulsing through her abdomen and down into her limbs. He holds her here, moving back to her sex and away again, building her almost to fulfillment and denying release as his magic wraps around them. She loses track of time, of where they are, of everything except the feeling of his fingers and tongue lathing against her. Her fingers curl and grasp at the sheets, the headboard, barely enough to ground her through the waves of pleasue.

“Creators,” she keens, “I need—”

He says something, into her, and the vibration of the sounds is nearly enough to shatter her—nearly.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” she moans, voice low and thick with need.

And, finally, he obliges. She cries out his name again, the only word that comes to her lips as the orgasm tears through her, leaving her trembling and dizzy, her muscles aching with gratification. Eyes half-lidded, she feels more than sees him push away his own trousers, his erection straining against the fabric. He moves as though to slide into her, but impulsively, she draws herself backwards, ignoring the look of shock on his face as she sits up and shoves his shoulders down onto the bed.

“My turn now,” Lavellan whispers, her smile wicked and challenging. He does not protest, but mutters something she think sounds like “indomitable” as she straddles herself across his hips, taking his throbbing shaft in one hand. Mimicking his slow tease, she runs her hand along it, circling the head with her thumb. His ragged exhale of pleasure is all the encouragement she needs—she does not have or want his patience.

Stretching upwards, she moves his tip against her opening, letting herself fall back only an inch as it just barely enters her. She is wet enough, almost dripping, that knows she could take him entirely now—but she savors the sensation, dropping slightly lower each stroke before rising up until he almost falls out of her. Solas’ head is thrown back in the down pillows, his whole body straining with the effort of not thrusting up into her himself while she skims her plams over the taut muscles of his abdomen. His fingers around her waist grip hard enough to bruise as with excruciating slowness she slides down his whole length.

A stream of elvhen pours from his lips as she begins to rhythmically rock her hips, and she doesn’t need to understand the phrases to know he’s praising her, exalting her to the heavens and promising all the depraved ways he will take her now that she is his. She isn’t sure if it’s his words or the sex or if there really is something to the musicality of their language, but what little she knows of the tongue blossoms in her mouth. “ _Ma sa’lath_ ,” she breathes, and she can feel other words, too; welling up from inside and pressing against her skin. The sounds die just before they leave her lips, as evasive as wisps of smoke, the true heart of the language dancing just out of reach.

Her pace quickens as she feels her own arousal stirring again, his hips grinding up to meet her own, pushing himself even deeper inside her. Her legs, still weak from the ages ( _hours?_ ) of blissful torment he inflicted on her, are shaking with the effort of holding herself up. Lavellan feels herself wavering; their pace faltering as she struggles to retain control. Feeling her waning, Solas seizes dominance again, grabbing her around the waist and rolling her beneath him. He thrusts into her with long, steady strokes, breath hot and wet against her neck.

“ _Isalan dera na aron tuelan_ ,” he exhales against her skin, and Lavellan delights as the last of his composure drops away, pounding into her with animalistic lust. His teeth bite at her shoulder, bruising her skin as she digs her fingernails into his back, dragging her hands along his spine. They are too far gone for words anymore, her keening wails and his heavy breath the only sounds that fall from their lips. Her leg wraps behind him as she struggles at the edge of her second orgasm, and he reaches to lift it higher yet, sliding his entire length inside her. They grind against each other frantically, passion fully overtaking thought.

When he comes it is with a moan, shuddering in ecstasy as she squeezes around him. She can feel him burning inside her, gradually softening as his movements slow to a stuttering halt. His hot seed spills onto the sheets as he rolls off her with a long sigh. Before she can turn to press against him, he slides his fingers inside her once more, lazily bringing her the short distance to climax again with steady, patient strokes. Lavellan clutches at his shoulder, face pressed into his neck and whimpering as the release washes over her for the second time that night. When she finally collapses against him, limp and shaking, she can just see the barest flicker of a smile dance across his features.

She nudges herself under his arm, pillowing her head atop his shoulder and throwing an arm across his chest. Even after spending the night stroking his body, she still wonders at the broadness of his shoulders, so much wider than her own. Next to him, she feels small, wrapped around him like ivy clinging to a wall. His hand rests on top of her side, tracing tiny circles on her skin with his thumb as he holds her against him. They lay there, racing heartbeats gradually slowing to a normal pulse. She can hear his pounding through his skin, and hopes her own will remind him that he is not one of the dead elves he so often reminisces about—he is alive, and here. She does not begrudge him his fascination with memories and the past—but this is now.

“I like this giving mood of yours,” she says, closing her eyes. The exhaustion of the evening—the fighting, the politics, not to mention the best damn sex she’s had in her life—reclaiming her from her exhilaration.

“I assure you,” he murmurs, “I am entirely selfish.”

She doesn’t think she agrees. “ _Ar lath ma,_ ” she sighs instead one last time, before sinking into a sleep too deep even for dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's probably what you all came here to read, then. 
> 
> This chapter brought to you by a desire to see Lavellan top for once, at least for a while ;) I'm in the dom!Solas trash heap with the rest of y'all, but my Lavellan... was definitely not a sub?? With all the initiative Lavellan takes in their relationship (kissing him first, directly asking him about it, etc), I just imagine she wouldn't let him have _all_ the control so easily.
> 
> There'll be one more section after this; it got long enough as is for now. Hopefully it doesn't read too awkward, I haven't tried writing detailed sex before.
> 
>    
> The elvish phrases are pulled from Fenxshiral's elven lexicon, and are VERY NSFW:   
> http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com/post/112758166173/can-you-list-sexual-elvhen-phrases
> 
> _Nuvenan rosas'da'din in'emma'av'in, sule Ar av'in rodhe u'ma_ = I want you to cum in my mouth until all I can taste is you.  
>  _Jutuan ma ir rosas'da'din, ma tel'aman melin_ = I will make you cum so much that you won’t remember your name.  
>  _Isalan dera na aron tuelan_ = I will touch you like a god/goddess)


	4. Chapter 4

She wakes slowly, fading back into the world much gentler than her fall into sleep. The smooth sheets are tangled around her legs, but the rest of her skin is bared to the slight breeze that whispers through the balcony doors, which they’d never bothered to close. Now that the fire has died down to embers, the chill has started to creep back into the room. Her skin is still warm where it rests against his, one arm thrown across his chest, her face buried in the back of his neck. He’d rolled onto his side at some point during the night, but she can still feel his steady breathing, and even fainter, his pulse beneath where her lips are brushed against his shoulder.

Slowly, careful not to wake him, she untangles her body from his and edges herself to the side of the bed. She’s not sure what time it is, but soft daylight is already streaming into the room. Quietly, she gathers one of the discarded sheets around herself—she doesn’t _remember_ shoving them or half a dozen fancy pillows to the floor last night while they were… occupied, but she also isn’t sure why the gaudy bed needed so many to begin with.

Lavellan pads over to the hearth, casually reigniting it with a flick of her wrist. The crackle of flames seems unusually loud in the quiet room; the only other sound the light wind that whistles along the castle walls. Whatever time it is, the party seems to have finally stopped. She wanders to the edge of the balcony doors, hovering just inside the entryway, but reluctant to leave the shelter of the room—especially dressed (or undressed) as she is. The last thing she needs is a parade of people come to gape at the Inquisitor clothed only in a thin blanket. But she can still see for miles through the open gap, across rolling hills and sweeps of dry grass. The sun is already a hand’s span above the horizon, and she is thankful that for once she was exhausted enough to sleep through the dawn. Rising early has been one of the habits from home she’s been unable to shake, even if she wanted to. She stands there for several minutes, contemplating once more the graceful stone ruins in the distance. In sunlight, the weathering shows more, cracks and ivy slowly enveloping the old fortress.

“It will be several hours before the Palace starts to wake,” Solas’ voice quietly interrupts her musings. His eyes are open now, and he studies her openly from where he still lays in the bed, head pillowed on one arm. “Everyone will still be sleeping off the festivities.”

“If they truly did dance until sunrise, they’d need to,” she replies, stepping back fully into the room and walking towards the bed. He stretches out one hand in invitation, and she takes it, letting the sheet fall from her body as he pulls her back into the canopied nest. She slides under the blanket and presses herself against him again, head resting on his chest as he idly strokes her hair.

Abruptly, in daylight, the night’s events seem almost unreal. After spending so long dancing around each other, Solas always keeping his careful distance—his abrupt shift in personality at the Ball seems almost something out of a dream. She’d have doubted it were anything more than a Fade imagining, if she couldn’t feel the heat of his skin against hers slowly warming her now.

“So you no longer think this unwise,” she asks him softly, even if she does not phrase it as a question. She is not sure she wants to know the answer; does not want to face the frustration if he decides to pull away again after all. She is sure he has his reasons for his guardedness, and tries to respect it, but that doesn’t mean his boundaries don’t sometimes hurt. But it has to be asked.

She feels him sigh; the slow rise and fall of his chest. But he does not pause for more than a moment before replying.

“It _is_ unwise. But that does not mean I regret it.”

Lavellan considers this for some time in silence, as his fingers lightly trace across her skin. It is only half an answer, and she thinks that maybe that should bother her, but it doesn’t. Eventually, she responds.

“Wise is boring,” she concludes.

His soft laugh vibrates through the bones of his chest, a soft thrum against her ear.

“Perhaps,” he agrees.

Warmed once more by the heat of his body and the rekindled fire, she grows drowsy again; almost enough to drift back to sleep. But she has had enough of dreams for now; when reality is finally so content. If she does not think too hard, she can almost forget the heavy mantle of responsibility that even now lurks above her heart. Almost.

“Tell me more about Artlathan,” she murmurs to Solas instead.

He thinks for a while. But he does not tell her anymore about the Golden city. Instead, it is a tale of the Fog-Warrors of Seheron; the mysterious people’s ever-raging battle for the freedom of their homeland. Even though their ancient halls and statues have been smashed to little more than dust, they carry their history in their hearts; clinging to it as fiercely as they fight. Even the majestic griffons of they Grey Wardens had originally come from their tiny, battered nation.

Lavellan half-listens, hearing more the tumbre and lilt of his voice as he speaks than the story itself. She’s not sure how long she lays there for, but eventually the tale shifts to a description of the subtle blend of alchemy and magic the fog dancers employ; and then to an explanation of how the Veil’s thickness influences different types of spellcasting. She doubts he really thinks she’s paying attention—to be fair, she isn’t—and it amuses her that this sort of thing is apparently just part of his usual internal monologue.

She feels more awake now, and turns to press her lips against his collarbone as she asks, “And what about that Rift magic trick of yours? How does that work, exactly?”

“I manipulate the essence of the Veil, pulling it to weave into my spells for increased potency,” he explains, as she moves her mouth up the side of his neck, one hand curling up and around his shoulder.

“Does it only work where the Veil is already thin, then?” She hums the question against his throat. “You don’t seem to have a problem when we’re near Rifts, at least.”

“Partially. It has more to do with the fundamental nature of the area as well as the strength of the Veil. And—don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Doing?” she mumbles into his skin, fingers brushing up his neck to trace the outer edge of his ear.

“You’re trying to distract me,” he accuses.

Lavellan sighs dramatically, letting her hand drop back to the sheet. “And clearly it isn’t working, if you’re still giving a lecture.”

“On the contrary,” he replies, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her to lie atop his chest with a startled squeak. “It is working all too well.”

“Mm. Better,” she concedes, leaning down to kiss him properly.

 

After several slow pleasurable minutes, just when she is thinking maybe she could get used to this whole sleeping in thing, that _Creators-forsaken clock_ begins to bellow out the hour. On the eighth _bong_ , she growls in frustration, and at the ninth and final ring, she curses.

“ _Fenedhis_.” She doesn’t bother moving her mouth from his as she swears, but the kiss is broken anyway as he begins to laugh.

“What time did Cullen want to leave by? Eleven?” she groans, knowing the answer already. Josephine will go looking for her soon, and undoubtedly find her absent and the bed unslept in. And then there would probably be an Inquisition-wide panic, followed by her having to explain _exactly_ where she had been and why. She does not much enjoy that potential future. Everyone teased her enough the previous night; the last thing they needed was more fodder.

With an exasperated sigh, she rolls off him to sit on the edge of the bed. Her clothes are still lying discarded on the floor, and—

“Ah, fuck,” she curses again. She only has her formal wear—and if anyone sees her wearing _that_ again in the morning, for no apparent reason, it’d be just as damning as an explanation. She stares at them in distress, waiting for a solution to magically appear.

None do. Wildly, she wonders if she could steal— _borrow_ —something of his, but it’d be far too large, and everyone who knew them would recognize his… _limited_ wardrobe anyway. This soon after learning firsthand just how skilled _out_ of it he could be, she doesn’t have it in her heart to critique his clothing today, even to just herself.

“Something wrong?” he asks, amusement saturating his voice, as though he knows _exactly_ what the problem is.

“I don’t suppose you happen to have an extra set of robes in my size lying around?” Lavellan grumbles, picking up the bright red trousers. There’d be no subtle sneaking in this outfit. She’d just have to make a dash for it. And she doesn’t even have her shirt. Trashing it had seemed like such a good idea at the time; she hadn’t had room in her limited pockets for that _and_ the pretty amulet and interesting-looking runestone she’d plucked off one of the bodies the night before.

She feels the bed shift behind her as he sits up, and his cool fingers brush the hair away from the back of her neck. Unnaturally cool, she realizes, even given the chill breeze, and slightly tingly. She sees a dim green glow flare in the corner of her vision, and realizes he’s healing the bruises along her neck. She frowns, but does not stop him. They would be yet another giveaway. But before he can move further down her shoulder, she takes his hand in hers, pressing a final kiss into his palm. She would have been tempted to push him for more than just that for a goodbye, but whatever passion had gripped him the night before seems to have settled back again, and she doesn’t want to risk damaging… whatever this is. Not yet. Besides, the sun is well and fully risen now, and with it has returned her weighty sense of duty.

She feels him move away again as she releases his hand and picks up his abandoned crimson tunic, grimacing. If she tucks it in, she can probably leave the jacket on top unbuttoned without it looking _too_ noticeably off…

“By the way, did you ever find out where your room is?” Solas asks, voice a perfect mask of innocence.

She freezes, then whirls to face him. He is lying back in the pillows again, eyes closed but a smile slightly turning the corners of his lips.

“Please tell me you know.”

“I’m afraid not.”

She sighs in exasperation. “If anyone sees me, I’m going to tell them I got bored with all your talking and fell asleep in a corner,” she mutters. She thinks he laughs again, but she’s already halfway across the room to her discarded boots as she pulls on the uniform. The garments are all dismally wrinkled from lying on the floor in a heap all night, but if she walks fast and avoids anyone important, it will probably be fine, she reassures herself.

“ _Dareth shiral_ ,” he calls lazily in goodbye as she carefully opens the door and peers into the hallway.

 _Safe journey indeed_. But luck is with her, for now at least, as it appears to be empty. Quietly, she slips through, hurrying back towards the main part of the Palace.

 _The Royal Wing,_ she reminds herself. Impressive quarters for her newly impressive status. It was probably going to be a pity she didn’t get to spend the night in them, but she can’t seem to regret it in the slightest. She turns a corner, furiously trying to remember the layout of the place. She should be able to get there without going through anywhere too crowded, especially if everyone is only just waking, like Solas implied.

Fortunately, he appears to be correct. She only passes a handful of Elvish servants, who pause to bow slightly to her as she passes. She nods to each one of them uncomfortably, despite their averted gazes, and almost wishes she’d let the Orlesian nobles have a bit more chaos and fright before she’d stepped in the night before. But this battle can’t be hers, not right now. Defeating Corypheus, that was the priority.

 _Right. Save the world first. Then you can relax with some extensive social reforms. Simple._ Lavellan shakes her head. Things are bizarre enough for now. Worrying about the future can wait until they begin the journey back to Skyhold. Then she’ll have nothing but time to revel in her anxiety about the power she now wields as they travel. For now, she hastens on.

 

Her luck holds until she’s made it halfway down the Royal Wing. She paces pensively in front of the line of doors, pondering which belongs to her.

 _Now_ , she thinks, _not the big fancy gold one at the end. That’d be the_ really _royal one. Maybe one just at the start of the hallway?_

She hesitates before a door, considering. She can’t hear anyone inside. Should she just open random entrances until she found the right one? Her belongings should have been placed inside, so she’ll know if she’s right. And since the events of the previous night so helpfully reduced the number of living occupants housed on this corridor, she’d _probably_ be fine.

But—“Good morning, Inquisitor,” a musical voice greets her from mere inches away.

Lavellan barely stifles a shriek of surprise as she whirls around, and oh, _Creators_ , it’s Leliana. Why did the woman have to walk so unbelievably _quietly?_

“Good morning,” she echoes after several seconds of silently working her jaw in surprise. “I was, ah, just getting up.”

Leliana’s eyes flick across her outfit, and if _that_ doesn’t tell her what she suspects, the burning blush that’s swept across her face certainly must. For once, Lavellan wishes the Inquisitor’s spymaster wasn’t so perceptive.

“I see,” the woman says, a small smile tugging the corners of her lips and her voice so slightly tinged with the lilt of laughter. “Did you enjoy the evening?”

 _Oh, no._ “The Ball was certainly an experience,” Lavellan answers evasively. “Mayhem and casualties. Wouldn’t be a proper party without them, apparently.”

“Indeed. You made quite the impression on the Court, I would say.”

“Hopefully not all of what they’re saying is bad.”

“Hardly. But any talk at all will be good for the Inquisition, I believe. Not to mention the addition of the Orlesian magical liaison. I believe she may be a great asset to us.”

Lavellan sighs, running a hand through her equally untidy hair. “Then it was all worth it, I suppose.”

“Well. I’ll let you be going, then. Josie will be heading up soon to prepare you for the formal farewells, and our departure.” Her lips quirk again, as she adds, “I trust your rooms were satisfactory?”

 “Undoubtedly.” Lavellan manages not to visibly wince as she answers.

Leliana studies her for a moment, then surprises Lavellan with a girlish giggle before turning to walk away.

The Inquisitor relaxes—a bit. Brow furrowed, she stares back down the long passageway.

“Inquisitor?” she hears the Spymaster call one last time from behind her, and she glances back.

“Third door on your left,” Leliana whispers far too loudly, with a mischievous wink. Then she disappears around the corner in a short swirl of fabric.

Scarlet again, she is certain, Lavellan counts down to the door, and _finally_ , enters her chambers. They are grand indeed—a whole suite of rooms, including both a massive four-poster bed, piled with more pillows than she could ever conceive of using; and a spacious bathroom, with an enormous tub in the center. It’s already filled with water, probably from the night before, now gone still and cold. Not that she couldn’t heat it up herself in a moment with a quick fireball. She stares at it longingly, imagining sinking into hot water to soak away the dried blood and sweat and the heavy perfumes that still cling to the fabric of her crumpled uniform She could happily spend an hour doing nothing but laying in warm water.

But, there is a sharp knock at her door, and “Inquisitor,” she hears the melodious Antivan accent call through the wood.

“One minute,” she replies loudly, stripping off the uniform with one last longing glance at the bathtub. But she still needs to go through the arduous process of saying the ceremonial goodbyes to all the remaining nobles, not to mention make sure everything is prepared for the long trek back to Skyhold. So instead she pulls open the wardrobe to grab her more suitable everyday garments, pulling the familiar fabrics over her head.

She could have had a very pleasant evening here after the Ball, Lavellan reflects. She would have gotten her bath, and more sleep, certainly. She’d only gotten a few short hours of real rest, and already can feel her eyelids growing heavy again.

 _Still_ , she reflects brightly,  _better than the closet._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! I hope you enjoyed this! I certainly enjoyed writing it. This chapter is [on tumblr here](http://maythedreadwolftakeyou.tumblr.com/post/119237905054/lost-to-night-ch-4).
> 
> Did anyone else develop a particular hatred for the clock during Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts??? I felt like every time I was finally exploring somewhere interesting, it'd start to _bong_ at me :|
> 
> And ohoho, an inventory joke. I'm so clever.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway: I've also added a series tag for this particular Lavellan of mine--she's snarky and fun to write, and I keep coming back to her. I don't use first names in fic intentionally, but if you like this particular Inquisitor, I'll be sticking works I use her in into this tag.
> 
> While 'Banister Banter' is actually from Dorian's point of view, I'm eventually going to have his encounter with Lavellan and Solas as they make out from his perspective in that one. Too fun not to try!
> 
>    
> ETA: like 3 hours after I left for my week-long camping trip the day after I posted this I thought of a much better final line (I did not like the original one but had no idea how else to end it), and FINALLY I can edit it in now that I'm home, not that most of you will ever see. OH WELL.


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